


Better for snakes

by caricari



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 04:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20829725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caricari/pseuds/caricari
Summary: Just an angel and a demon having a stupid conversation about snakes and nipples. Little bit of budding friendship and probably a bit too much curiosity about one another's physical manifestations.





	Better for snakes

_c2000 BCE, near what will one day be Norfolk. _

_._

The hall of the King was, in much the way of ancient Kingly halls, slightly underwhelming when considered from a modern point of view. The walls were a little damp and the thatch overhead did little to keep the rain out. The floor was made of pressed dirt, strewn with straw and a few of the summer’s wildflowers to dull the scent of the unwashed masses. A large central fire, set off to one side, warmed the oblong space against the autumn chill, but failed to provide enough heat to remove anything more than one’s outer cloak. The hall’s low wooden tables came without seats, so most of the townsfolk knelt on the dirt, others shared barrels and crates. Nobody cared. This was the night after a victorious battle and all were deep in their cups. 

It had all been something to do with someone’s brother’s wife, and a prophecy, and a harvest that had been ruined by a herd of sheep. Crawly wasn’t sure how it all had got going but he had been sent to stir things as they progressed and he had done a damn fine job of it, he thought, as he picked his way through the seething mass of humanity that was the King’s hall. The King - who, like the hall, was slightly underwhelming when considered from a modern point of view - had been easily swayed to follow the advice of his cousin and attack a neighbouring kingdom. There had been a few skirmishes, some stolen cattle, two ceremonial swords brandished and one storming of a town, but the whole thing had ended in remarkably little bloodshed. The humans had been willing to seek a diplomatic solution, for once. Someone’s daughter had been betrothed to someone’s son, and the King had expanded his empire, in the south. Conquest ticked off from his list of life ambitions, the victorious ruler would soon fall to sloth and greed. His brother would fall to envy and spite, and try and seize the throne, and two more souls would be well on their way to Crawly’s master. They would probably all have ended up heading that way anyway, the demon thought, but there was no point quibbling over it all. A job was a job. 

Clasping a clay flagon in one hand, he sidestepped a young soldier who was emptying the contents of his stomach directly onto the floor behind his table, and then crawled over another couple, who were wrestling over some perceived slight. The air was full of sound. Voices shouted out in a language that the demon had only just begun to understand. Songs and laughter battled against his eardrums. The light in the hall was low, coming solely from the central fire and a couple of oil lamps, but the demon could see perfectly. Raising the flagon above his head to keep it out of harm’s way, he extricated himself from the last of the revellers at the table, peeled the hands of a young noblewoman off his upper thigh, and moved towards the side of the building where yet more revellers - of lower social standing, but equal enthusiasm - were heaped on the straw piles, along the walls. 

Halfway along the wall, strewn a little haphazardly in the straw, was his companion for the night - a being he knew reasonably well, from their meetings through the years. Someone that the demon might, fairly soon, consider referring to as a friend. The angel was stretched out, giving a little yawn. It had been a long day for the both of them. An early start on in the war council’s tent - a late dash across enemy lines to check that things were playing out the way they wanted. The pair had bumped into one another by chance, the previous evening, and realised that their respective jobs sounded almost identical. It turned out that, in this one thing, Heaven and Hell seemed aligned, so they had resolved to work together - in an unspoken sort of way. A little extra political strife (Hell’s goal) was a good compromise for a little less bloodshed (Heaven’s). So, Crawly had laid seeds of betrayal in the King’s brother’s mind and Aziraphale had made sure that the neighbouring King - the one whose small, damp kingdom was being attacked - experienced a wave of pragmatism that led to an early surrender. And the game was afoot. 

It had been an equal division of labour, but it had meant the pair of them being involved in the battlefield early in the morning and they were both a little ruffled by the occasion. The angel had a number of little scratches and bruises over his arms. Crawly was sporting a rather impressive amount of dirt (though he had miracled away the blood), and a split lower lip. His tunic, which he had been quite fond of, was ripped at the side. He couldn’t inspect his woollen cloak for damage because it was currently wrapped around Aziraphale, who had been complaining about straw being ‘itchy’ to lie on. The pair of them could have repaired themselves in a heartbeat, of course, but had decided to leave the dirt and the scratches partly healed until morning. It gave them the cover of being part of the rank and file. And, hopefully, a place to sleep for the night. 

They would be heading off their separate ways come first light. The thought caused the demon a strange little twist in his mortal stomach. It had been quite pleasant, really, seeing Aziraphale again - and for two days in a row this time, as well. The angel and demon had bumped into one another a few dozen times, now, since the beginning, though they tended not to hang around one another for too long when it happened. They were both a little anxious about their masters finding out that they were on speaking terms. Still, it was nice to have a familiar face, in the ever shifting landscape of the world. Over the years, Crawly had become used to the angel; used to his stupid decisions regarding swords, and his warm laugh, and his silly conversation starters. They always had plenty to talk about and occasionally things escalated into wine and laughter, which was nice. And, lately, there had been an undercurrent to some of their interactions which Crawly thought might lead to a serious bit of temptation, one day, so the demon thought he’d let it play out. It was pleasant, to have an almost-friend.

Sidling back over to his opposite number, the demon threw himself down onto the ground and raised the flagon of wine above his head. 

“I return, victorious,” he stated grandly, as Aziraphale propped himself up on one elbow to view him better.

“Oh, bravo - well done!” His face did that thing that Crawly liked best about it, a little change of tension around the eyes that somehow made them warmer. “That must be the last surviving flagon,” the angel exclaimed, looking around at the drunken townspeople. “They’re moving onto last year’s experiments with wheat, over by the door.” 

Crawly pulled a face. 

“Not ready as a drink yet,” he hissed, with a shake of his head. “Sss’ still too sharp.”

“I think when they realise that they can mature it, things will improve,” Aziraphale smiled, watching two soldiers play boxing. “Look what the Egyptians have done with beer, after all.”

“Yeah, that was a good shout,” Crawly agreed, settling himself a little further back into the straw. Aziraphale still had his cloak and the demon considered, briefly, asking for it back, but the angel looked supremely comfortable and the demon appreciated the importance of someone owing him a favour. He raised the flagon. “Can I tempt you, then?”

Aziraphale gave him a slightly reproachful look. 

“Well… I mean, I don’t really think it counts as a temptation if I was going to be drinking anyway, Crawly.”

“Oh really?” This was the second best thing about Aziraphale, in the demon’s opinion - second to the eyes. He gave the most wonderful little self justifications for his actions. There was really nothing Crawly liked better than listening to a heavenly representative talking absolute shite to justify his love of mead, and food, and little comforts. “Does this go for all forms of debauchery?” He asked, grinning at the angel. “Anything else you do already do that I can get in on?”

The angel shrugged, expression passive. “Nothing you’d be particularly interested in, I imagine.” 

Either this was true, or he was a better liar than Crawly thought. Giving a little grunt, the demon let the joke slide. He offered the flagon and the angel took it, looking around as if for a cup. 

“Weren’t any left,” the demon answered his unasked question. “People keep throwing them to the ground in celebration.”

The angel looked crestfallen. 

The demon rolled his eyes. 

“Oh, for Satan’s sake, Aziraphale, don’t be a priss. We’re supposed to be fitting in with these reprobates.”

“Well, easy enough for you, I’m sure,” the angel replied, pompously, “but some of us have standards.” 

The demon rolled his eyes. Reaching over, he snatched the flagon back and lifted it to his own lips, in example. He took a long draught of the honied liquid, feeling just a little spill over and slide down his chin. The taste wasn’t bad. He stretched reality a little and made it a little thicker and richer, then handed it back to the angel. 

“You’ll manage,” he said. 

Aziraphale did manage. Indeed, he rose to the occasion rather magnificently, the demon thought, once he had overcome his horror at having to drink straight from the bottle like a common drunkard (rather than the refined drunkard he liked to think himself). They finished the first flagon, then a second, then a third - helped along by their celestial ability to replenish the dregs. The mead improved with every revision, until it was a delicious blend of what both of them liked best. Crawly tended to take it a little sweeter, while Aziraphale preferred a bit of spice, so they worked well together. They were fairly drunk by the time the King stood to make his speech. They were utterly inebriated by the time he had finished and a man with a little stringed instrument struck up a rousing song, nearby. Shuffling closer in the straw, so that they could still hear one another above the racket, their conversation turned to the subject of human bodies. 

“I mean, I don’t see why it’s necessary to have so many toes,” the demon was exclaiming, stretching his own. He had discarded his leather boots half an hour previous. The townsfolk were dancing and the fire had been stoked, and the combined effect had warmed the hall considerably. He didn’t even miss his woollen cloak anymore. Which was good, because Aziraphale was looking very comfortable, nestled in it. “I feel like three would have been sufficient,” the demon said. “Or two. One on each side.”

“And then there’s the business with hair,” the angel chipped in. “Having it mostly on the head seems so arbitrary. I mean… why heads? Are heads supposed to be kept warmer than the rest of the body?”

Crawly reached a hand up and touched his own head, feeling the untidy mess of wavy hair that had been scraped back and tied with a leather strap. “Mine’s not,” he muttered. 

Aziraphale reached across the small gap between them and rested a palm on the demon’s head. The movement was a gentle, even through the angel’s drunkenness. It felt a little like a blessing and, suddenly afraid of what that might do to him, Crawly shrugged him off. 

“Do you mind?”

“Do I mind what?”

“You’ll mess it,” he whined, running a hand over his hair. “I only just managed to contain it.”

The angel gave him a little smile, eyes doing the warm thing again. “Oh, don’t be silly. You look fine.” His gaze passed appreciatively over Crawly’s hair. “I like that you change your hair, like they do. I could never pull it off.”

The demon squirmed. He liked being appreciated - it really was his thing - but he also liked Aziraphale to know how distinctly unbothered he was with such Earthly nonsense. It made him feel a little more in control of things, to pretend as if existing in his mortal shell was really not worth the effort - that he really didn’t care about this world, or what the humans did, or what happened in the aftermath of a temptation or a cursing. He liked to look unbothered because he actually spent a lot of time bothering about these things, and he was quite sure that was very un-demonic of him. It didn’t do to let you opposite number know that you were a bit of a soft touch. 

“Well. What I don’t understand,” Crawly forced himself on, ignoring the topic of his hair and the angel liking it, “is the whole business with nipples.” 

The angel frowned, taking another draught of the mead, then setting the flagon to rest on his midriff. He raised his eyebrows. “Nipples?”

“Yeah.” The demon shifted, angling his head to better meet his friend’s gaze, as he slouched back onto the straw. “I mean, I understand women having them, obviously. You need them to feed infant humans, right? But is there any need for an adult male to have nipples?”

“No lactation,” the angel conceded, taking another pensive drink. 

“Yeah, and no lactation no point, right?”

Aziraphale looked as if he were struggling with that sentiment, for a moment. He opened his mouth, then seemed to bite back whatever it was that he was about to say. Then he went very slightly pink, gave a concessionary nod, and took another sip of his mead. 

“I mean, I haven’t really found any use for mine,” Crawly continued, taking the flagon from the angel and helping himself to a large swig.

“_You_ have nipples?” The angel asked, incredulously. 

The demon puffed up a little. 

“Yes. Why shouldn’t I?” 

“Well… I mean…” Aziraphale looked over him, a little appraisingly. “I understand male humans having them for the sake of, well, having developed from the same thing as female humans. But your body is a physical manifestation, made in hell. You were a snake. Snakes aren’t even mammals. What use would you have for nipples?”

“Huh-!” Crawly felt a little huff of air escape him, indignant frown sliding over his face. “I’m-,” He shook his head slightly. “Well, that’s a bit rude,” he snipped, pushing himself up on one elbow to eye the slightly swaying shape of the angel lounging across from him. He pulled a face. “Why not ask what use I have for legs, while you’re at it?”

“Well, you would look terribly odd, slithering around the place in that body.” 

“And I wouldn’t look odd if I didn’t have nipples?” 

“Well, yes, I suppose you would.” The angel reached a placatory hand out, placing a few fingers on Crawly’s forearm. They were very warm. “I didn’t mean to offend you, dear. I was just surprised, is all.” The angel gave his head a bit of an experimental shake, as if to check how drunk he was and if they were really having this stupid conversation. “It’s just that your lot seem to be terribly literal about the bodies they give you, so I wasn’t sure how they’d interpreted it all.”

Crawly stared. “What do you mean, incredibly literal?” 

“Well,” Aziraphale had the decency to look a little embarrassed. “Your eyes, for starters.”

“My eyes-,” the demon spluttered. “I-,” he felt a little flush in his cheeks. “Well-,” He was a bit sensitive about the eyes, actually. He didn’t like the way people flinched when he let it his concentration slip, and they became less human. He didn’t like the pity people gave him when he lied and said they were caused by a terrible disease. He didn’t like people taking one look at him and knowing he was different. 

The angel rubbed his fingers on the back of the demon’s forearm again. 

“There’s nothing wrong with them, dear boy. I think they’re quite beautiful, actually, but it is a rather literal interpretation of your original form.”

Crawly stared.

“You… You think what?” There was all sorts of confusion happening in him, now, because it was hard to feel both flattered and indignant, while maintaining an air of casual indifference. The three things didn't work very well together and mead complicated the situation. 

“And there’s also that thing you do with your tongue sometimes,” Aziraphale pointed out, undeterred by the demon’s reaction to the comment about his eyes. He glanced down at Crawly’s slightly open mouth. “That can be a little snakelike.”

Feeling suddenly very aware of his tongue, the demon forced his jaw shut. 

“I barely do the thing with my tongue anymore,” he muttered, through slightly gritted teeth.

“Well, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t. It’s very impressive,” the angel shrugged, “but, again,it’s a bit of a literal translation - hence my point about the nipples.”

They stared at one another, across less than a foot of space. They had drifted closer and closer throughout the evening, as the celebrations around them grew louder. Now, Crawly could almost see his own reflection in the angel’s bright eyes. He could smell the warmth of him, too. He could smell him better when he had his mouth slightly open, because of his slightly snakelike tongue, but even with his mouth closed he could smell him. He smelled of warmth. Crawly was not quite sure how. Warmth wasn’t a proper smell, but he did. Aziraphale smelled of warmth and something else - something more, something other. He was a warm, golden angel, who thought Crawly’s eyes were beautiful. What a strange thing, thought the demon. Would the wonders of this world ever cease?

Clearing his throat, Crawly sat up a little straighter in the straw. He would get through this new and horrific failure in not-caring the way he always did - with sarcasm, humour, and alcohol.

“Well.” He reached out and tugged the flagon of mead away from the angel, took a large swig, then handed it back. “As it turns out, Hell _did_ give me nipples.”

Aziraphale gave a little smile. “Okay. If you say so.” 

The demon gave a little clear of the throat. 

“I’ll prove it.”

The angel flushed pink and gave a short bark of a laugh. “No-!” He glanced around, to see if anyone was watching them due to his outburst, but they weren’t, so he repeated himself - a little quieter this time. “No, Crawly, you absolutely don’t have to prove anything.”

But the demon was already reaching down, tugging the fabric of his tunic free from his hips, then his chest, then scrabbling to pull the neck free over his head.

“No, I’m going to show you.” 

“Crawly…” The angel murmured, half amused, half distressed. He kept glancing around, as if worried someone was going to come over and tell them to move it along. 

Crawly, who had been told to move along from several establishments in his time - both politely and physically - doubted this party was going to be another to add to the list. The revellers were deeply involved in one another. Just twenty feet away, someone was shagging someone else against an empty barrel. Him taking his shirt of was hardly going to break decorum. 

“I must,” he insisted, tugging the tunic free over his head. “My honour has been impugned. I cannot survive another day with you thinking I’m lying about my nipples.”

“Crawly,” the angel chuckled, unable to keep the amusement from his voice. He reached a hand out in a vain attempt to stay the demon’s movements. “I believe you, you fool - put your clothes back on!”

“You can’t dissuade me. I’m going to show you-,” the demon yanked at the fabric and it came free over his head, "all of them.” His hair had come loose from its leather tie in the process. It fell around his cheeks, a little damp from the earlier rain, delighted at being freed from its bounds. Wriggling around a little, the demon pulled the tunic off one arm, then struggled to get the other out. The indignant feeling he had been puffed up with earlier had dissipated. The angel was laughing heartily, now, and the mead was warm in his belly, and somehow any slights about him having once been a snake didn’t feel very important anymore. Aziraphale hadn’t meant it cruelly and he did think Crawly’s eyes were beautiful, after all. “I’ll show you all of them,” the demon announced, tugging the last of his limbs free from the tunic with a flourish. “All sixteen… of my snakey nipples.” 

Aziraphale giggled worse than ever, his cheeks flushed very pink. He was clinging onto the flagon of mead as if it were life. 

“I said I believed you, you idiot. You didn’t have to strip yourself!”

“You believe about all sixteen?” Crawly asked, holding the tunic protectively over his chest.

“Yes!” the angel exclaimed, then reconsidered it, wrinkling his nose. “Well, okay, no, but- oh, stop it!” 

The demon tossed the tunic at the angel and pulled himself up to his knees, breathing a little hard from the exertion of it all. His skin felt tight in the cool air. His decidedly not sixteen nipples felt a little sensitive as the angel dragged his eyes over his naked torso. 

“Only two,” Aziraphale grinned, a little breathless from the laughter. “Liar…”

Crawly watched him, feeling the hard packed dirt beneath his leather clad knees, feeling his chest rise and fall a little more rapidly than usual. Ever one for dramatics, he held his arms out to the side, making a display of the moment. 

“And yet, nipples. You stand corrected in your estimations of Hell, angel.” 

The angel’s smile stretched a little wider. They were both a giddy with mead and mirth and Crawly didn’t even flinch when his friend reached a hand out, towards his side. 

“May I?”

He did flush a little, though. 

“Yeah. Sure.” He wasn’t sure why he’d want to, but okay.

Aziraphale’s palm was warm and soft. There were no callouses in the ridges of his fingers. Even his nails were neat, trimmed a little shorter than Crawly’s. They barely touched the demon’s skin as the angel spread his fingers out, curling the whole of his hand around the side of the demon’s waist, where muscle gently tapered into the smooth line of his hips and around into the soft line of his belly. Crawly was not all harsh angles, inside his clothes. There was something graceful about him, stripped down, something caught between the masculine and feminine aspects of a human body. Or, perhaps, something of the early days of adulthood, just emerged from adolescence - a sketch, not quite filled out. 

The angel’s thumb found the shallow of his navel and the demon thought, vaguely, that the argument about why they both had navels could carry them right into morning, but he didn’t venture down that path. His head was tilted down, watching Aziraphale’s rapt attention as he touched the shadows of Crawly’s ribs, one by one, up to the edge of a dark nipple. The angel paused, there. Then, glancing minutely up at the demon, he brushed the edge of the pink skin. It was the faintest of touches, but it sent a strange jolt down into the depths of Crawly’s abdomen. The demon tensed slightly. Everything felt momentarily tighter, then hotter, then the angel lifted his hand, and it faded away. 

“Well,” Crawly shifted slightly on his knees. “That felt a little odd.” 

Aziraphale fixed him with a veiled expression, still smiling, still with traces of their earlier laughter, but with a slightly darker undercurrent, now - that undercurrent Crawly thought might push them along a different path one day. 

“Not completely useless, nipples,” he offered, without shifting his expression or pressing the point, but making it very clear that he meant exactly what it sounded like he meant. 

The demon felt his skin prickle. 

It was a strange little moment. Usually, he was the tempter, the one who made the jokes, the one who inferred that he knew things about the world that the angel didn’t. Tonight, it was zero-one to heaven. Storing his new bit of information about mortal bodies away, Crawly resolved to test it out later, when he was on his own. 

“Well.” He gave a tiny cough, to cover the moment. “Are you satisfied that i’m not covered in scales, then?”

The angel smiled. He chanced another look over the demon’s naked chest. “You do seem remarkably free of scales.”

“And you are willing to confirm that snakes can, indeed, have nipples?”

“Well, one snake at least.” 

The demon gave a businesslike nod, which the angel smiled a bit wider at. 

A few moments passed in quiet contemplation of one another, then Aziraphale spoke up again. 

“You really are very beautiful, Crawly,” he murmured, shy but appreciative. “You shouldn’t worry about how they made you.” The words had a soft warmth to them, devoid of any ulterior motive. There wasn’t a shadow of expectation in the way he said it, or a hint of the implications that had lurked in his eyes, just moments before. That alone made the demon able to cope with the moment. (Almost).

“Well,” he pulled a face. He was trying for bravado, but appreciation was a hard thing to show bravado towards. “It’s just a body, isn’t it?” 

“It’s part of you.”

“No, it isn’t…”

“It is,” the angel insisted. “You can’t spend as long as we have in a body and it not become a part of you. You adjust. You begin to appreciate things through it. Taste, and sound, and scent. It’s why we like to feel, and eat, and drink,” he raised the flagon, offering it out to Crawly, who took it and raised it to his lips. The mead had changed again, a little more fragrant this time around, with a little ginger in the mix. 

“Nice addition,” he told the angel.

“Thank you.” 

“I still think it's just a body, though,” he babbled. “And, when you think about it, it’s a bit weird at all that we assign words like beauty to a body. I mean, they’re there to be functional. How can-,”

“Just accept the compliment,” the angel interrupted, gently. 

“Ngk.” 

The demon made a little noise and, handing the flagon back, sank back into the straw beside the angel. He was feeling a little pleased with himself, and a lot embarrassed that he was pleased. 

A little time passed. The man playing the stringed instrument set up nearby, to lure a few of the townswomen into a dance, and Aziraphale offered Crawly back the tunic. The demon took it, but did not pull it immediately back on. He rolled it up, instead, and used it to pad his lower back, wondering if being half-clad might mean the angel would look at him again. He quite liked being looked at, he thought, through the fog of mead. It had been a very long day and appreciation really was his thing, and appreciation from someone who had lived through two millennia meant a good deal more than normal appreciation. Casting a sideways look at Aziraphale, he engaged him in conversation about something stupid. 

They sat for a long while, that way, talking and laughing. They discussed the country and the King, and all the ways they thought it might pan out. (Their predictions all turned out to be wrong). They discussed what was happening on the continent, and the demon bemoaned having to spend the whole summer somewhere so depressingly damp when they could be sunning themselves in Crete. They talked about the beaches they had been to and the places they had sunned themselves, and drank enough that they could almost imagine themselves spread out in the sand. The heat from the nearby fire was almost enough for Crawly to feel Mediterranean sun on his skin, and the thought brought a smile to his face. 

As they traded the flagon back and forth, their fingers brushed more often than not. Eventually, the demon got tired of looking at the little pink marks on the angel’s skin - cuts from battle, imperfectly healed - and he caught hold of Aziraphale’s hand, bringing it close to his face. After a tiny argument, over what would draw attention to them from above or below, they both agreed that healing a wound after battle didn’t really count as a miracle and was probably to be expected. The angel protested that he could do it himself but the demon, full of good will towards existence by this stage in his drunkenness, made claims about chivalry and insisted on running his own fingers over the scratches. 

“It was my idea to actually go over there,” he justified, “to facilitate the surrender. Wouldn’t want heaven finding you performing miracles to clean up my mess.” 

Aziraphale didn’t argue after that. 

A wash of power was all it took to seal the skin on the smallest cuts. The larger took a few words and a little press of his hands, before Crawly felt the flesh that made up the angel’s mortal body knitting back together. Moving up the arm, the demon fixed the burns on Aziraphale’s shoulder, then smoothed a few bruises on his forearm, healing burst blood vessels beneath the skin. Then, coming to a poorly healed gash on the angel’s palm, he lowered his mouth to the spot. 

It was an impulse, not really planned, and it was only the angel’s little admonitory noise which made him realise that it was possibly outside the realm of what was okay to do without permission. The demon looked quickly up. 

“Sorry.” He glanced down at the hand, then again at the angel. He wasn’t sure why he had decided to kiss it better, only that he was very drunk and he wanted to taste the skin there, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. “Is this bad?” 

The angel cleared his throat. 

“No, it’s just that… well,” he blushed a little bit. “I don’t think we should really draw attention to ourselves, and someone might take issue with…”

Crawly lifted an eyebrow, glancing around at the revelling humans. 

“I’ll stop if you want me to, angel, but I wouldn’t worry on their account.” The humans around them were singing and swaying, wrapped around one another against the walls, or passed out over tables. The man who had been playing the stringed instrument was feeding fragments of its now broken body into the great fire, a mead-dazed expression on his face. The King was entertaining three young women, all writhing around in his lap. “There isn’t a barrel left in all the kingdom,” the demon hissed. “Who should be doing what with whom has become something of a moot point. You could bend me over the top table, naked and playing the trumpet, and these hedonistic little tramps wouldn’t blink twice.” 

The angel gave a noise somewhere between a laugh and a yelp. The comment had caught him completely off guard, which delighted Crawly.

“That was crass,” Aziraphale admonished, after taking a moment to compose himself. 

“Demon, remember?” The demon grinned, showing off a little too much tooth. “All part of the gig.” He looked back down at the hand, which at no point had Aziraphale tried to pull away from him. “Offer still stands...” 

The angel hesitated for a moment, but then nodded and the demon dipped his head down to kiss the palm lightly. His lips found the long indentation where a blade had cut into flesh, and pressed.At once, the flesh beneath the surface began to meld and seal. He kissed it again and the shadow of the gash, which had been only barely closed, began to flatten and the skin above it went from red, to pink. Turning his face, the demon kissed the other end of the little scar until it became white, then slowly vanished, then he withdrew his head and rubbed the spot idly with one thumb.

“There,” he smiled, rather proud of his work. “Good as new.” 

“Thank you.” 

“No problem.” 

He let the hand go, and Aziraphale retracted it, slowly. Sitting back in his nest of straw, wrapped in Crawly’s woollen cloak, the angel watched him rather closely for a few moments, but the awkwardness that Crawly feared might come never really did. Conversation slowly returned to normal, and they began to pass the mead back and forth again, making small additions as they saw fit. 

As the party reached fever pitch, they enjoyed another flagon between them. They sat and watched as the humans began to reach the peak of their drunkenness, their antics becoming steadily more silly and pointless. Crawly amused himself by pointing out pairs of humans that were going to fight, before they actually made any moves. Aziraphale accused him of cheating by instigating some of it with magic (which, of course, the demon had). By around midnight, enough of the revellers had passed out, or stumbled off into nearby bushes with willing participants, to make the place a bit quieter and Crawly eventually pulled his tunic back on, feeling the chill now that the fire had burned lower. It was late. His body was tired. Angels and demons did not need sleep, as a rule, but he had become accustomed to the sensation. Now, like air or water, his body called out for it if denied. It was more trouble to bend reality than to just allow his mortal body some rest. So, wriggling down deeper into the straw, the demon shifted around to get comfortable. 

Aziraphale rolled over onto his side and watched him from the folds of the thick woollen cloak that definitely was going to end up as his. He certainly looked very comfortable. Arranging his head on his arm, the demon wondered if it was okay that they were both so at ease in one another’s company, sharing mead and clothes. He wondered if it was okay that he was enjoying the situation. It was all quite friendly, after all - but he supposed the celebrations today had been full of gluttony and sloth, so it wasn’t all that un-demonic. Indeed, eyeing Aziraphale across the way, the demon could think of one or two things that would make the situation even more demonic… but he wasn’t bold enough to venture down that road. Not yet. Maybe one day.

“You staying, then?” He asked the angel. 

“Yes. I’m between homes at the moment,’ Aziraphale replied. His voice was a little clearer than it had been, before. Crawly suspected that he might have sobered up. The demon had chosen not to himself. It had been a long day and the crutch of alcohol still felt a little needed, after witnessing the battle. He would just miracle away the hangover tomorrow, instead. “I’ll rest here, then move on in the morning,” the angel sighed. 

“Yeah, me too.” The demon yawned widely. It was a nice feeling, yawning. Like sleep, it was something his body did not need, but enjoyed. “Where’s your next project?”

“Nothing lined up yet.” Aziraphale mirrored his yawn. “Was thinking of trying to head back south, to Rome, for a while,”

“Yeah?”

“Find some warmer weather.”

“Better for snakes, warm weather,” Crawly pointed out. 

A little smile pulled the angel's lips as he shuffled his head against the straw and closed his eyes. 

“I’ll keep an eye out for snakes.”

“Yeah, you’re good at that,” 

The little smile grew slightly. 

Silence hung for a while, punctuated by the occasional song, or a reveller tripping past, or the crackle of the fire. The flames weren't quite near enough to keep Crawly’s arms warm. Wrapped in only his tunic, he soon became very aware of the breeze drifting in through the open doors. The demon was just considering stretching out into his power and raising the temperature in the area by a few degrees when the angel’s voice punctuated the darkness. 

“Crawly?” 

“Hm?” 

“If you’re cold, you can lie closer.” 

The demon thought for a moment about asking the angel to repeat himself, just to make sure he’d heard correctly. Then he considered arguing the point, or asking whether they should really be allowing such things. But Aziraphale was sober and he was drunk, he reasoned. Really, he couldn’t be blamed for any bad decisions made tonight. And he was a bit cold. Pulling himself up on his elbows, the demon shifted his body closer. He left an inch or two between them, out of nerves, but as he lay down the angel shifted to close the distance. Opening the woollen cloak, he threw half over the demon’s shoulders so it covered him down to the floor. Crawly shivered as the angel’s hand brushed against his shoulder, but Aziraphale didn’t comment on the matter - just lay back and wriggled around a bit, until he was comfortable, letting his arm come to rest between them. The side of it brushed gently against the side of Crawly’s. The demon held his breath, unused to such contact. The angel gave a contented little sigh. 

They didn’t both fit entirely under the cloak. They were too tall, but the parts of them that hung out were either cushioned by straw or close enough to the fire to keep warm, and it was better than lying out in the open. It was much better, Crawly thought, as he watched the little hairs on the back of his friend’s forearm glow gold in the flickering light. It was nice, to feel the warmth of another living being against him. He had always liked that feeling, even if he rarely indulged in it. There was always something insincere about being curled against a human in this way, even if it was only for warmth. Humans were just so temporary. Their fragile heat would be gone from the world in a blink of the eye, while Crawly would remain forever. It never felt quite right to take anything from them. This did feel right, however. Them, wrapped up together, the soft cadence of their breaths filling the silence, the outside world cut off, at bay. It was familiar yet new and, for the first time in a very, very long time, the demon found himself feeling safe. 

He fell asleep quickly, though he tried to stop himself, to prolong that feeling of quiet contentment. He dozed off and woke several times, each time giving a little start to find Aziraphale still lying beside him. The angel didn’t sleep, of course. He had mentioned before that it wasn’t really his thing, but he did enjoy resting and warmth. He seemed to enjoy the contact as well because, as Crawly shifted around in his sleep, the angel moved to fill the spaces between them. He didn’t pull away, either, when the demon squeezed himself closer, seeking warmth. A couple of times, Crawly woke with his face pressed gently against the side of an arm, or into his shoulder. Once, he woke pressed into the curve of the angel’s neck. 

Things were a little hazy, that time he woke. The demon was caught half way between waking and dreaming, and he thought he might have felt a finger brush across his lip, over the split made by the morning's battle. He thought, too, that the angel might have leant forwards, to press a gentle kiss against his forehead as he startled and that, maybe, he had instinctively tilted his head back and stretched up to meet Aziraphale. And perhaps, just perhaps, their lips had touched, once or twice - or seventeen languid, sleepy times, with the angel’s fingers curling around to tangle in his hair. But, when he woke in the morning, it seemed a lot more like a dream (despite the fact that his lip had miraculously healed over) and the angel didn’t mention it, so Crawly didn’t either. 

The angel departed for the south and the demon headed off to the west coast, the next day, to deal with a little racket he had been setting up there. The weather in the west remained cold and rainy, however, so, after a few months, he followed the angel down towards the mediterranean. As representatives of opposite sides, Crawly was hardly able to look the angel up in the company phonebook, but he lurked around the right sort of haunts and took the right sort of jobs and eventually they ended up bumping into one another again. The demon had always been good at seeking warmth. And Aziraphale had never been any good at keeping an eye out for snakes. 

.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me lurking on [IG](https://www.instagram.com/heycaricari/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/heycaricari), and [Tumblr](https://heycaricari.tumblr.com/) @heycaricari


End file.
